The Daedra's Wrath
by princebejitasama
Summary: What if Sauron had been a Daedric Prince? This crossover seeks to answer that question. Set 85 years after the events of Oblivion, in Cyrodiil and Skyrim. Largely Original Character based.
1. Introduction

[A/N: This crossover is a "What-if" story, answering the question I've asked myself more than once, "What if Sauron had been a Daedric Prince?". I mean, seriously, wouldn't he be an epic Daedra?

This story is set in Cyrodiil and Skyrim, and takes place 80+ years after the events of Oblivion. It also deviates from canon timelines/lore, making it something of an AU Verse. All of the main characters (with the exception of canon chara e.g. Sauron) are of my own creation, as are their quirks, backstories and personality traits. In addition, there are a few original locations as well.

Let me know your thoughts on the intro chapter, please?]

**The Daedra's Wrath**

_(A Lord of the Rings/The Elder Scrolls Crossover)_

Prologue

Mehrunes Dagon walked the Earth once more.

Despite the best efforts of so many, the Daedric Prince of Destruction had forced his way into Tamriel, bringing with him a colossal army, intent upon laying waste to all life. The towering demon stared down at the battle below, hundreds of Dremora storming the Temple District of the Imperial City, watching as his red-skinned servants clashed blades with the outnumbered Guards of the Legion. A fanged smile was etched into his grotesque features, as he swept a giant warhammer into a group of nearby soldiers, sending them flying across the battlefield.

Down below, the streets of the Imperial City were a bloodbath. With no clearly defined no-man's-land, bows became useless in the closed-quarters combat, the archers quickly sliding long and keen blades from scabbards at their sides and charging into the fray. The Mages had backed themselves into a corner, working their magic to both distract and fend off the brutish demonic warriors from Oblivion. Amidst the chaos, however, two men continued to fight towards the Temple.

Martin Septim, the Emperor of Tamriel, stood beside the renowned Hero of Kvatch, pushing through the sea of warriors and blades, desperate to reach the Temple. After rallying the troops from every County of Cyrodiil, the Hero of Kvatch had led an assault on the Great Oblivion Gate, causing Dagon's machines of war to come to a grinding halt. This act had prevented the Daedra from unleashing his most potent weapon, but had not thwarted the onslaught completely. The March of Oblivion continued, and now, the Daedra continued to pour into the city like ants towards a food source.

"To me! To me!" the Hero roared, brandishing his long sword, and the Imperial soldiers surrounding him gave a bloodthirsty cheer, fighting with renewed vigor, carving a path directly towards the Temple. From a short distance away, Mehrunes Dagon saw this with cunning eyes, and as the leaders of Cyrodiil's defence entered the Temple, a sudden realisation struck him with all the force of a bomb.

Inside, the Hero of Kvatch slammed the doors closed, throwing a nearby bookcase across the sealed entrance, then turned quickly, panting heavily, jogging across the room to where Martin stood.

Uriel Septim's son glanced down at the Amulet of Kings around his neck, his face pale and grim. When he turned his eyes on the Hero, there was a cold finality in his glance, and a steely resolve. "I do what I must do." He said hurriedly. "I cannot stay to rebuild Tamriel... That task falls to others." A small smile touched the Emperor's lips as he placed a hand on the Hero's armored pauldron. "Farewell. You've been a good friend, in the short time that I've known you. But now I must go..." Releasing his grip, Martin turned and stepped away towards the centre of the Temple. The Hero watched on, at a loss for words. As Martin stepped into the circle, he glanced over his shoulder, nodding once. "The Dragon awaits."

A thundering roar boomed around them, and the Temple shattered, Mehrunes Dagon crashing through the wall in a rage, and the Hero was thrown across the room, crashing into the stone behind him. His eyes blurry and unfocussed, he saw Martin's figure levitate, thin beams of light radiating from the gleaming amulet on his chest, and then, a bright explosion of gold radiance engulfed his form.

Dagon staggered backwards, raising an arm to shield his eyes, and the swirling radiance twisted into the shape of a colossal Dragon; The Avatar of Akatosh. The Dragon swooped low, roaring violently, opening it's fearsome maw, and passed mere inches above Dagon as the Daedric Prince ducked for cover. It flipped over in mid-air, soaring back to the Temple, and landed heavily, the ground shaking under it's weight.

Such was the fury of Mehrunes Dagon, the darkened skies split open, bathing the black clouds in a blood-like red hue. The Prince stormed forwards, driving his heavy hammer into the Dragon's chest, following up by swinging a giant blade towards it's neck.

The Avatar beat it's immense wings, darting it's head forward and clamping it's fanged jaws into the neck of Dagon. Holding him in place with it's powerful maw, it lashed out with clawed feet, slashing and slicing at the Daedra. Dagon released a strangled howl, struggling against the vice-like grip of the Dragon's teeth, but his struggle was in vain.

The Dragon stepped back, releasing Dagon from his grasp, a mighty growl issuing from it's throat as it bathed the Daedra in piercingly bright flames. Smoke began to rise from Dagon's form, and slowly but surely, the Prince of Destruction began to burn up, exploding in a bright display of fire and ash. All across the Imperial City, the Daedra vanished, as if thrown through the very fabric of space and time by an unseen force, and the skies faded to grey. The Avatar of Akatosh panted heavily, it's giant form shaking with every breath. It turned it's ferocious head towards the slowly rising Hero of Kvatch, and acknowledged him with a slow, farewell nod.

The final member of the Septim bloodline was passing from the world, yet Martin went to the halls of his father, and his father's fathers gladly. The Amulet had shattered, and thus had closed Dagon's Gates to Oblivion forever more. A final, earth-shaking roar issued from the Avatar of Akatosh, and Martin Septim spread his vast wings, turning into stone.

The battle, was over.

…...

_ 6 months later..._

A hush fell over the Palace grounds as High Chancellor Ocato stepped up onto the podium. Gathered in front of him, on one of the sweeping lawns, the eight Counts of Cyrodiil stood by their subjects, alongside members of the Mages Guild, Fighters Guild, and several Imperial Diplomats. There were, however, a few less reputable members of society watching on; Sitting lazily on a nearby rooftop, sprawled out in the morning sun, a man in weather-stained leather armor and a gray cowl watched on with interest, whilst a dark robed and hooded figure stood hidden in the doorway of a mausoleum, surveying the scene with keen eyes. Lastly, a tall, slender, balding man in a ruffled black coat with red under shirt stood in the middle of the crowd, seemingly bored with the whole proceeding.

Since the fall of Dagon, the peoples of Cyrodiil had been rebuilding much that was lost, routing out the last remnants of the Mythic Dawn, and burying the honored dead. But, mostly, they rejoiced at the fall of the Daedra, and sung praises to the Heroes of Cyrodiil.

But, with no Emperor on the throne of Tamriel, there was no banner to unite under. Many men had come forward, claiming to also be the illegitimate sons of Uriel Septim, whilst others suggested that Ocato himself take on the role. There was, however, only one man fit to preside over all of Tamriel in such a time.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Court, rulers of Cyrodiil's Counties, Guild Leaders..." Ocato began, his voice carrying over the thronging crowd. "... You have been called here today to bear witness to the dawning of a new age." A brief smattering of obligatory applause rang out from the crowd. "The High Council has convened, and after several days of deliberations, we are proud to announce that we have finally selected a new Emperor... The perfect leader to guide us into this Fourth Age of the World." Behind Ocato, lined against the wall, were several white-armored Palace Guards, and standing at the end of the row, a figure in bright golden armor. Ocato turned his hand towards this figure, and on cue, he began moving towards the podium. "There can be no better man to lead Tamriel, than the man who carried it through the darkness. Without him, there would be no Tamriel today. So, it is with the greatest of pride that I present to you, The Hero of Kvatch!"

The crowd exploded into cheers and applause, and the speech that the Hero had prepared was discarded. The leaders of Cyrodiil and her provinces continued to cheer and applaud as Ocato placed the crown upon his head, as the Hero raised his arms to his new subjects, the Imperial Dragon Armor gleaming in the sun. On his rooftop, the Gray Fox smiled a small smile before slipping away back over the rooftop. Lucien Lachance simply slipped back into the shadows of the Mausoleum, and Haskill disappeared entirely, no doubt heading back to the Shivering Isles to inform the Madgod of proceedings today.

Celebrations continued long into the night, but the new Emperor took little part in them. He rose before dawn the very next day, took a horse to his liking from the Palace stables, and set off along the road, eager to begin the rebuilding of Cyrodiil.

And rebuild, he did.

Within 2 years, the County of Kvatch had been restored to it's former glory, and the damage to the walls of Bruma were repaired. The remnants of the Oblivion Gates were torn down, and a colossal memorial was built beside the stone Dragon now dominating the Temple District.

Over the next 80 years, Cyrodiil experienced a colossal population boom, and as a result, much of the empty wilderness of the realm was colonised and settled. Not only that, but the Hero of Kvatch renewed ties with Skyrim and its monarchy, and there was much trade between the Imperials and their Nordic brethren to the North. Such were the ties of kinship that the High King allowed the Imperials to build the township of Helgen on its Southern borders, and Imperial Troops were sent to strengthen the garrisons of Skyrim.

And, when trouble (in the form of the Alik'r looking to expand their realm beyond the fringes of Hammerfell) threatened Skyrim's borders, the Hero of Kvatch (although at the time nearing 60 years of age) fought on the front lines of the battle.

Now, in the year 85 of the Fourth Era, the Emperor has long entered his twilight years. For nearly a century, the Hero of Kvatch has lead Tamriel through the darkness and into a golden new age of prosperity. Even the greatest of stories, however, must always come to an end.

His trials over, and with Tamriel flourishing once more, the old Emperor passed away on the eve of his 105th Birthday. In recognition of the Hero's life work, a golden statue of the man was erected in the grounds of the Palace; An honour that even the legendary Tiber Septim wasn't granted.

With the Hero of Kvatch's story now complete, a new tale can begin.

But some stories are darker than others...

This story is of a forgotten Daedric Prince. Sauron, the Prince of Death. When the Dark Brotherhood emerged as the leading death dealers of Tamriel, their worship of Sithis conflicted with Sauron's followers, and in a short but bloody massacre, Sauron was forever wiped from the minds of the Tamriellians.

None who lived in the current age knew that Sauron, however, once threatened to seize Tamriel in the grip of his iron fist. Millenia ago, Sauron the Deceiver entered the realm, offering false counsel and aide to the peoples of the World.

In the Daedric Realm of Mordor, Sauron forged 19 rings of power, to be given as gifts to the leading races of Tamriel. Three rings he gave to the Ayleid Lords, which made them powerfully magical beyond the wildest dreams of the Mer. Seven were given to the Dwemer Kings, granting them prosperity in their mining and craftsmanship. And Nine rings he gifted to the Nords, making them the fiercest warrior race on Earth.

Of course, they had all of them been deceived, for Sauron, Prince of Death, wished no more than to enslave them. The Dwemer and the Ayleids were the first to fall, and were swept from their homes to serve in the realm of Mordor as Sauron's thralls for the rest of eternity. The Nords, a proud race of mighty combatants, rebelled against the orders of Barad-dur, and forced their treacherous leaders back with the aide of a younger and more primitive race of men; The Imperials. The High King, along with his eight Jarls (for Markarth was still a Dwarven centre of society at this age), were pushed deep into the Mountains, and sealed within the confines of Bleak Falls Barrow. All of Sauron's followers were routed out, and the Daedric Prince returned to his home in Mordor, bitter and defeated, and his time in Tamriel was torn from the history books.

Millenia on, Sauron received word of Dagon's defeat, and saw a golden opportunity lying therein. After defeating such a mighty foe, the people of Tamriel would become content and complacent, growing blasé and soft in times of peace. The last thing they would expect is another powerful conqueror just over the horizon.

But, with the shattering of the Amulet of Kings, the usual doorways would no longer be open to him. This, however, would simply make the inhabitants of Tamriel even more careless.

The key to unlocking the door to Tamriel was simple; Power. If the Dark Lord could summon enough strength, he could break through the protection offered by the Septim bloodline. And so, using his myriad of enslaved Dwemer and Ayleid servants, Sauron began forging a new Ring, a master Ring, greater than those he gifted to the races of Tamriel in the forgotten years.

And so, for nearly a century, Sauron planned his attack. Unlike Dagon, Sauron lacked a near immeasurable army of Daedric monsters, and the Dremora in his service weren't nearly numerous enough to launch an assault upon Tamriel. What Sauron possessed, however, was a silver tongue and a cunning mind. He could assume a form fairer than the ghastly visage of his true face, and he was a master of deceit and a spinner of lies. He had no doubt that he could sway many of the inhabitants of Tamriel, for as history has shown, the hearts of men are easily corrupted.

Now, the Daedra stood in the very heart of his realm, within a cavernous chamber built into the volcanic mountain Ordodruin. Down below, the fires of Amon Amarth raged, flame and molten rock spraying high into the air.

"My Lord..." a hooded and robed Dremora approached Sauron's turned back, a small wooden box in his hands. "It is complete."

Sauron turned, his black cape billowing out behind him. 85 years of waiting... And it was all finally coming to fruition. "Approach, Dremora." The red skinned demon did as he was bid, kneeling in front of the Daedric Lord, opening the box.

Laying on a black cushion within the box, was a single, unremarkable golden ring. Sauron removed it from the box and slipped it over his finger, red lines of script burning brightly around the band. He raised his hand, staring hungrily at the golden ring on his finger, and spoke. "Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul!"

One Ring, to rule them all.

[A/N: Thus concludes the introductory chapter! Thanks for reading! I'll begin work on the next Chapter tomorrow, but I'll hold off on posting just in case anyone spots a fatal flaw I've made and haven't spotted. Again, let me remind you that this is almost completely AU. All reviews are welcome and appreciated!]


	2. Chapter 1

**The Daedra's Wrath**

_(A Lord of the Rings/The Elder Scrolls Crossover)_

Chapter One

Turdas, 1st Frostfall, Year 85 of the Fourth Era.

5:22am, Halesgarden, The Colovian Shires, North-east of Kvatch.

The path from Halesgarden to the Watch Post was coated in a fine layer of ice and frost, the first of Winter's snow falling lightly through the trees. A lone man traipsed the path, drawing his cloak tighter about him, his breath coming out in a misty fog. His hood was raised, further shadowing his stubbled and weather-worn features, and a well crafted bow was slung across his back. Up ahead, a lantern twinkled in the morning gloom, marking the position of the Guard House on the path.

Leaning against the wall of the small house was a bow and quiver of arrows, and Cassius smirked to himself, shaking his head as he opened the door, the worn wood creaking on it's hinges. "T'would be a fine thing if a gang of bandits chose to raid Halesgarden in the dead of night, Ludovic." he said in a mock serious tone, stepping over the threshold. The Guard House was a small stone building, around fourteen feet long and wide. A bear-skin rug was stretched out across the floor, and built into the far wall was a neat fireplace, merry flames crackling in the grate. Another man, no doubt the Night Watchman, turned in his chair, stretching and yawning.

"I don't see you volunteering for night duty, Malacabre." The guard replied with a small smirk. "When was the last time you braved the cold to defend the residents of Colovia, hmm?"

"That's Captain Malacabre to you, Guardsman." Cassius replied, folding his arms, a smile moving across his features. "And as such, I am able to delegate less enjoyable tasks to my clumsy subordinates."

"Clumsy subordinates indeed." Ludovic rose from his chair with a chuckle, stretching and yawning. "Nothing of import to report. A few wolves away to the south, but I was able to chase them away towards Anvil before they got to close to Halesgarden... By the way, why are you here this morning?"

"Phineas is indisposed." Cassius replied, folding his arms and leaning in the doorway. "There was a brawl at the Dancing Dagger last night, and he was knocked unconscious when he attempted to break it up. The brawlers are currently sobering up in the barracks and no doubt feeling terribly sorry for themselves."

"Ah, I see. And you've admirably stepped forward to pick up the slack. I applaud you, sir." Ludovic moved past Cassius, patting his Captain on the shoulder. "I'm going to see if Madam Frost will perhaps open the Dagger early for a weary guard desperate for a warm mead after a night of defending the realm. Farewell."

Cassius saw the guard to the door, and watched on as he progressed down the path towards the sleepy village, fishing in his pockets for his pipe and pouch of tobacco. The first grey light of dawn was filtering through the trees, and a few plumes of smoke could be seen drifting towards the skies as the early risers of Halesgarden began to awaken and go about their business.

Halesgarden itself was a fairly young town, part of the rapidly growing Colovian Shires East of Chorrol. The area had been first colonised some 60 years previously, around the same time that the High King of Skyrim allowed the Imperial Legion to build the town of Helgen in Skyrim's Falkreath Hold. The Colovian Shires were co-founded by the Nords, and as such, many Nordic designs could be seen in it's design.

Taking a few thoughtful puffs from his pipe, Cassius leaned against the wall of the guard house, gazing around at the gently falling snow. It was indeed just another quiet morning in Halesgarden, and Cassius found himself quietly regretting his need to be stationed here. He preferred traipsing the woods and roads to sitting at a static guard post like this. But, as Watch Captain of the Colovian Highlands, such duties were unavoidable.

He hadn't been on duty for long, when the sound of an approaching horse met his ears. The slightly muffled clip-clop of hooves along the snowy cobblestones, and the occasional snort from the horse drifted up the path, and Cassius turned his head, spying a chestnut brown steed trotting along the road, a cloaked rider sitting atop it. As the rider approached, Cassius stepped out onto the road and raised a hand. "Who goes there?" There was no suspicion in his call; He was simply a guard doing his job, asking questions of riders on the road in the early hours of morning when most were yet to rise.

The rider, on closer inspection, was a broad-set, powerfully built man, and when he lowered his hood, jigging the horse to a halt, he appeared to be in his mid to late fifties, his face heavily worn and scarred. "Travias Grelden, resident of Halesgarden.." he replied gruffly, clutching the reins and glancing down at the Guard.

"You're out early." Cassius replied conversationally, recognising the man. He had moved to Halesgarden a few weeks previously, and whilst Cassius had seen him about town once or twice, the two had never previously spoken. In fact, hardly any of the locals knew much about him, aside from the fact that he was a former member of the Legion. Grelden, it seemed, appreciated the quiet life.

"I'm returning from an errand to Kvatch, so I guess you could say I'm returning late." Grelden replied dryly, a very small, almost unnoticeable smile cracking through his worn features. "I was due to return last night, but my business there ran overlong."

"No trouble on the road?"

"None to speak of." he admitted with a nod. "From the signs, a wolf pack travelled through the area about 5 miles to the south, but they'd moved on by the time I'd arrived."

"One would imagine a former Legionnaire could handle most troubles along the road at any rate, right?" Cassius, like most of the residents of the village, was curious about this newcomer. Most people are, in small, out-of-the way towns when a stranger moves to the area. But Cassius, as Captain of the Watch, had his own reasons. He didn't want any troublemakers in his town, and while Grelden seemed respectable enough (albeit rather reclusive), it was better to be safe than sorry.

"Legionnaire?" Grelden arched a brow. "I may be old and forgetful at times, but I don't recall being a Legion Soldier at any point in my long, long career."

"Ah, it seems that second-hand gossip and chit chat has failed once again." Cassius replied, covering his mistake with a chuckle. At that moment, his eyes caught sight of the handle of a katana jutting loose from from within the folds of Grelden's bedroll on the back of the horse, and he narrowed his eyes in curiosity. Grelden, following Cassius' gaze, subtly covered up the handle. "That's an Akiviri Katana, isn't it?" He queried, recognising the designs on the hilt. "You... You were once a Blade, weren't you?"

Grelden concurred with a short, curt nod, gripping the reins, indicating he wished to pursue the topic no further. "I must take my leave, Watchman. The road is not overly long, but it has left this old man rather weary. I bid you a fair day." Without another word, Grelden jigged his horse forward, taking off at a quick trot down the road towards Halesgarden, leaving Cassius' curiosity even higher than before.

10:41am, Market District, The Imperial City.

The Market Place was a bustling hive of commerce and activity. Even the latest of the city's risers were out and about, buying and selling their wares, browsing copies of the Black Horse Courier, or simply chatting about the gossip of the day. Of course, not all of the citizenry were out for shopping and chit chat.

A loan Khajiit strolled alone amongst the market-goers, dressed in a ragged brown cloak and hood, eyes downcast and hands clasped in front of him. The cat was a regular in the Imperial City, being one of the homeless vagabonds from the Waterfront District, although few new his name, and even less knew why he visited the Temple and Market Districts when he didn't have two Septims to rub together. At least, that's what the inhabitants of the City believed.

The Khajiit moved through the streets, carefully weaving between the crowds, until something caught his eye. A nearby stand had mounds of freshly baked bread on display, and the hungry cat felt his stomach growl, gazing longingly at the various baked goods, his mouth almost watering at the sight of the sweet rolls on the stand, and in his careless moment, ran headlong into a tall Nord. The Skyrim local barely moved, but the Khajiit fell to the ground, his cloak and hood tangling up under his feet.

"Watch where you're walking, cat!" The Nord barked in annoyance, dusting off the front of his tunic, a sneer etched into his face.

The Khajiit quickly scrambled to his feet, straightening his cloak and bowing repeatedly to the Nord. "Ma'kiir offers you the sincerest of apologies, good Nord." he said shakily, nervously. "He is a little clumsy at times, please forgive him. He is but a poor Khajiit who-"

"Ah, cut it out!" The Nord said, embarrassed by the slowly unfolding scene. "Just, watch where you're walking in future!"

"You are too kind to this poor Khajiit." Ma'kiir said submissively, bowing once more. "May you have the most pleasant of days and the fairest of luck until Sovngarde beckons!" The cat offered a final, twirling bow before hastily turning, leaving the bamboozled Nord feeling at a loss for words. As he watched Ma'kiir disappear into the crowd, the Nord stuck his hands in his pockets, trying to recall what it was he was in the middle of doing. That's when he noticed his Coin Purse was missing.

"Hey!" he roared, sprinting through the crowd, knocking over a cart of cabbages in the process, and winding his fingers into the folds of Ma'kiir's hood. "You mangy feline! I'll skin you alive!"

Ma'kiir let out a shriek of fear, squirming for his life and tugging his hood free. "Guards! Guards!" He screamed. "There's a madman on the loose!"

Before the Nord could protest, cries of "Stop right there!" echoed throughout the street, and two heavily armored Imperial Guards came storming towards him. They grabbed the big Nord and slammed him into a nearby wall, twisting his arms behind his back. "Thought you'd assault the poor, needy folk of the Imperial City on my watch, huh?!" The guard growled, slapping irons on the Nord's wrists.

"No! I've been robbed! That crafty cat stole my coin purse!" he bellowed, writhing in the Guard's clutches. The Nord however, quickly admitted defeat, and as he cast an eye over the area, he caught a glimpse of Ma'kiir leaning on a nearby wall, a broad, toothy grin on his face, bouncing a hefty coin purse up and down in his paw. The Khajiit tipped the Nord a final wink before kicking open the sewer grate and disappearing into the shadows below.

Ma'kiir, of course, was no mere beggar. Ma'kiir was known to those closest to him as Ma'kiir the Crafty, and his name was well earned. The Khajiit was one of the best thieves in Cyrodiil, and the fact he had no reputation amongst the regular public reinforced that.

Sliding the grate closed, Ma'kiir ambled down the pathway that bordered the sewer waters, weighing the coin purse in his hand, exceptionally pleased with the morning's work.

7:10pm, Howling Labyrinth Cave, South of Helgen

As with any career, being a member of the Companions had its own perils and dangers. And, due to the higher risk involved (not to mention the far greater possibility of death), the only warriors admitted to the Companions were of the highest echelon in all of Skyrim. The Companions took jobs that were often too great for the Hold Guards, and tonight was no different.

A sizable group of Falmer were found residing in an old cave on the border, a short distance from Helgen's walls, and after attacks on a few local small-hold farms, the Companions were called into action. Four of Jorrvaskr's warriors entered the cave, axes and blades at the ready.

Within twenty five minutes, though, a minor cave in separated the group; On one side of the divide was Sognvir Ice-Hammer, on the other were three junior members of Skyrim's fighter's guild. Not wanting to send the rookies off alone, Sognvir told them to wait while he found another path around, but before he'd gone too far, he heard what he'd been dreading.

The ringing of metal, the twanging of bows, the battle-cries of the Companions, and the screaming screech of the Falmer. As he sprinted through the icy tunnels, it became apparent to Sognvir that this had been a trap. The Falmer were far smarter than many gave them credit for, and they'd managed to (seemingly) pick off three elite fighters with ease.

Clutching his heavy battle-axe, Sognvir charged down one tunnel after the next, his eyes smouldering with furious fire beneath his closely cropped hair, his teeth grinding in silent snarls from behind his long, black beard. Before long, he came across a dented and blood stained helmet, discarded on the path, and the badly beaten corpse of a young Dunmer who'd been on the verge of a promotion into the next ranks of the Companions. Seething, the big Nord continued his war march, occasionally needing to duck so that his seven and a half foot frame could squeeze between the low overhanging ceiling.

Entering a high, icy chamber, Sognvir's eyes fell on an unmoving figure lying in the centre of the cavernous room, and as he slowly made his way towards it, the figure twitched, a low groan escaping his lips. The man was still alive. Sognvir sprinted the last few steps, dropping his battle-axe and stooping beside his fellow Companion, trying to rouse him, examining his wounds with worrisome eyes.

"S-Sognvir..." the Nord gasped, clutching at his superior's armor. "It's... trap..." Footsteps echoed in then chamber as the warrior released a final, racking breath, his arm falling limply to the side. Sognvir laid the man back on the ground, placing a hand on his heart.

"I'll see you in Sovngarde, my friend." he said in his deep, gravelly voice. "Mayhap sooner than you think." Rising, he swept his eyes across the room, watching as the blinded elves crept towards him, holding curved scimitar-like blades and crooked bows. The Nord's face was a mask of fury as he closed his eyes, tearing off the straps of his armor and tossing the chest piece aside. When he opened them again, his pupils were dilated, with glowing red irises, and he bared his newly grown fangs with a savage snarl. The Falmer halted their movements towards him, feeling the change in the air, and Sognvir began to grow.

His nails extended and hardened into wicked claws, dark fur spread across his shoulders, and with his face contorted with the pain of the transformation, Sognvir Ice-Hammer turned his head to the ceiling, releasing a blood-curdling howl...

9:26pm, Bleak Falls Barrow, Whiterun Hold, North of Helgen.

Bleak Falls Barrow, rightfully so, had a dark name in Skyrim. Many wondered how the residents of Riverwood were content to live in it's shadow, to dwell beneath the eyes of the ancient tomb as it sat on the top of the mountain like some dark, benevolent idol. It was common knowledge that Draugr resided deep in it's catacombs, and none but the bravest of adventurers (or the most desperate of criminals) ever ventured into its depths. And those that survived the legions of Draugr and the nests of Frostbite Spiders were usually far too shaken to repeat what they saw in the claustrophobic darkness.

As such, Bleak Falls Barrow was the Holy Grail of many; Plunderers, researchers, adventurers, warriors and bandits. Even so, with so many seeing it as the greatest prize to those in their field, it had been many years since any had ventured past the doors of Bleak Falls.

Until now.

Gharoth Faar, a mage from the College of Winterhold, had succumbed to the lure of the Barrow, seeking knowledge on the ancient Nords. Dressed in his usual blue and tan robes, his hood shadowing his dark-rimmed eyes, the Breton moved cautiously along a narrow stone corridor, a flickering torch in hand.

Scanning the area with his light green oculars, he passed a row of Draugr tombs, swallowing nervously, moving slowly and carefully. The Raven on his shoulder was equally as nervous, rustling its wings intermittently and staring beadily at the skeletal Nords, sleeping in cut recesses along the damp stone walls.

The pair passed through a low ceilinged chamber, past the mummified bodies of some would-be plunderers who never got the spoils they so sought, and the Raven uttered a quiet, croaking caw. "Hmm?" Gharoth muttered, eyes darting to the bird on his shoulder. "Yes, I'm sure this is a good idea. And regardless, it's a little too late to back out now. After the trouble we went through to get _in_ here..." When the Raven simply stared at him in reply, Gharoth rolled his eyes. "Oh Archie, don't look at me like that." he muttered in exasperation. "Look around us, all of the Draugr are asleep, and the only spiders we've come across have been laying on their backs with their legs curled up. We're fine! Seems the old man was right about the... 'evil in Bleak Falls' being in 'uneasy rest'."

This time, Archie gave a slightly shriller call, shaking his beaked head sharply. "Well... Yes, the 'uneasy rest' part left me feeling a little worried... But, it's not like we're going to find a better time to examine this place."

And so, the duo continued, through chamber after chamber, past a (thankfully) empty Frostbite Spider nest, and deeper into the mountain. They found a strange, circular doorway, but after close to half an hour of muttering incantations and adjusting the mechanisms, Gharoth deduced that some form of key was required to enter this sealed room, and they moved on.

Eventually, they came to a nearly collapsed tunnel which, when followed, led to an almost perfectly square chamber. As they stepped in, and Gharoth raised his torch, the mage's mouth fell open into an "o" of surprise. "By Stendarr..."

Stretched out before them along the walls were several ancient carvings, writings in different Nordic dialects, Draconic, and a rather foul and uncouth language Gharoth could understand little of. As he walked around the chamber, taking sketches of the various inscriptions and carvings, the Breton began to piece together a story from the parts he could read, and that weren't damaged beyond comprehension. "Hmm... Perplexing, perplexing..." he muttered, crouching and wiping a coat of dust from the wall. "This seems to be a tale of fallen Kings... An offer was made... Treachery against the people of Skyrim... I, I think the Dwemer are mentioned but... I can't be sure."

The third language (which he could comprehend next to nothing) continually repeated one word. "Nazgul..." Gharoth placed his torch in an empty bracket, staring intently at the wall, hoping that his glare alone could decipher the secret. "Nazgul... Oh, this his hopeless." The mage threw back his hood, running his fingers distractedly through his medium length and rather messy brown hair, the raven Archie perched on a nearby bracket, watched his master pace back and forth, clicking his beak and cocking his head curiously. The familiar turned his eye toward the wall, then hastily fluttered over to Gharoth's shoulder, cawing raucously.

"A... a tomb, you say?" Gharoth replied, narrowing his eyes and striding back to the wall and examining a section. "You know... I think you're right..." He reached out, trailing his finger beneath a row of words, muttering under his breath. "Yes, this... 'Drive out the tyrants of Earth and Sky... And beneath the mountain, let them lie...' And this word, Nazgul again... But... Where is the tomb?"

This puzzle would remain unsolved, for now. After what felt like hours of study, the pair gave up their search. "C'mon, Archie." Gharoth called to the Raven. "We'll try and find ourselves a room at the Tavern in Helgen for the night." Neither of the travellers were all that keen on traipsing back to Winterhold in the dead of night, especially with the eyes of Bleak Falls on their backs.

[Thanks for reading guys! Hope you enjoyed reading this one. As I've said earlier, if I've left any major mistakes/problems with canon lore etc, let me know so I can fix 'er up. Leave me a review? Tell me who your favourite character is?]


	3. Chapter 2

**[AN:** Sorry for the delay guys! Work schedule has been crazy lately. Hope you like this one!

Random thing: When writing for Sognvir, I imagine him to both look and sound exactly like Leonidas from 300 :D]

**The Daedra's Wrath**

(A Lord of the Rings/The Elder Scrolls Crossover)

Chapter Two

The Dancing Dagger was highly regarded as the best Inn within the Colovian Shires. Residing in the very heart of Halesgarden, the Dagger boasted the best mead west of the Imperial City, and had an impressive number of regular patrons. Tonight, all the regulars (and sundry) had gathered for whatever reason in the warm, spacious common room of the Dagger, applauding the tall Bard by the hearth with more and more enthusiam as the drink flowed. Sitting by the bar, Cassius and fellow Watchman Ludovic had their backs to the room, glancing over their shoulders as the final chords rang out from the Bard's lute, putting their tankards down to provide a few perfunctory claps.

"Oh look at that, would you?" Ludovic muttered with mild disgust, gesturing to a knot of young women seated nearest to the Bard, blushing and giggling. "They wouldn't look twice at him if he couldn't play that bloody lute."

"You're implying he plays well?" Cassius replied, snickering over the rim of his tankard. "The man dropped more notes than a clumsy diplomat."

Ludovic chuckled, clapping his Captain on the shoulder. "A note of jealousy, oh fearless leader?" he asked. "Besides, the townsfolk seem to think he can play quite well. The gold in his cap can attest to that."

"Throw the commoners a bandy-legged tomcat scratching a fiddle and they'll applaud as though their ears are being blessed by the harps of the Emperor's minstrels." Cassius replied jokingly, draining the rest of his mug.

"Thank you, thank you!" The Bard exclaimed to the group, twirling his hands and taking a bow. "I'm afraid though, that my time entertaining you all is at an end."

"Give us one more!" The crowd chorused. "Encore!:

With a well trained hesitant smile, the Bard scooped up his Lute once more. "Oh, very well." he sighed, earning a cheer from the patrons. "This song is one of my all time favourites. Ladies and Gentlemen of Colovia, this song is called Ragnar the Red."

As the Bard began strumming the first few chords, the door to the tavern swung open, a brief flurry of powdery snow blown through by the chilly breeze. Over the threshold stepped a man in light armor, a leather helm adorning his head, a shortsword girt by his side. "Just an Imperial messenger" the patrons thought to themselves, returning their attention to the musician by the fire.

The newest visitor briefly scanned the room, moving across the tables towards the bar, and, after setting eyes on the Watchmen, moved through the crowd towards them.

"Here comes trouble..." Ludovic muttered, his eyes flicking over Cassius' shoulder towards the door. "A Legionairre, no less. And he's headed straight towards you."

Cassius sighed and rolled his eyes. "Clap me in irons now and save me the hot air." he replied in mild exasperation.

"Captain Malacabre?"

The Captain turned and glanced over his shoulder, providing a nod to the Courier. "Aye. I'm off duty at the moment. If you proceed to the Guardhouse on the outskirts, whoever is on duty can take your message."

The Courier shook his head. "I apologise for intruding upon your private time, but the message I carry is for you, Captain."

"Then it can wait until morning." Cassius replied bluntly. "I have had a highly tasking day, and-"

"This message comes directly from Legate Carver." The Courier seemed to be growing impatient with Cassius' stand-offishness, and abruptly cut over his speech. "I'm afraid it cannot wait. Just a moment of your time." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode to the door, opening it and slipped out into the night.

"Well, he certainly put _you_ in your place." Ludovic commented, holding back a grin. "I must say I'm concerned. A message from the Legate isn't usually good news."

"Your optimism is reassuring." Cassius stood, tightetning his belt so that his blade sat more comfortably on his hip. "I shan't be long. Try not to drink Madam Frost's kegs dry."

"No promises, my friend."

Outside, the snow fell in light flurries, occaisonally whipped too and fro by periodic and icy cold winds. It wouldn't be long until the stable boys were called upon to carve paths in the drifts between dwellings, it seemed. Full Winter was coming early. The Courier stood by a hanging lantern near the stables, tightening the saddle on his horse, and glanced around as he heard boots marching in his direction.

"I apologise for my abrubptness, Courier." Cassius called, drawing his cloak more tightly about himself. "What news from the Legion?"

The Courier gave a brief shake of the head, as if to say "No harm done", then pulled a tightly furled scroll from one of the saddle bags. "Your services are needed elsewhere." He replied, handing the message to Cassius. "There has been a call for more men in Helgen, and as Colovia resides near the border-"

"Hold on a moment..." Cassius quickly scanned the message, his dark brown eyes moving quickly across the parchment and then darted towards the Courier. "I'm being reposted? Away from Halesgarden? Why me?"

"Your record speaks for itself, Captain." The Courier replied blandly. "Your capture of the Argonian convict was one of the most impressive feats seen in many a year. 4 weeks of tracking from the border to Anvil. Not something the average guard could accomplish. Especially considering that Thrice-Bitten had eluded the Legion for two whole months before you picked up the trail, and that he was one of the slipperiest criminals in Black Marsh."

"I..." Cassius glanced back at the message one last time before he rolled it back up. "Halesgarden is my home. I need it as much as it needs me. Perhaps more."

"Tis the duty of a Guardsman to go where the Legion sends him. You were told this when you first joined, I don't doubt."

This was true. Cassius knew that there was every liklihood that he wouldn't serve the rest of his time in Colovia. He'd watched several men come and go in the last 7 years, being shipped off to other Counties and Shires across Cyrodiil where there was need for them. Cassius also knew that he was no different. He'd taken the Oath and sworn allegiance to the Crown, and would follow his orders to the letter.

"Aye, very well... When must I leave?" There was a certain note of dejection in Cassius' voice. Even though he had, for quite a while, wanted to see with his own eyes the Northern realm of Skyrim, he hadn't wanted it to be a prolonged, forced visit. And, he figured, he wouldn't see much beyond Helgen's walls and the surrounding Falkreath Hold.

"As soon as you can." Came the prompt reply. "Sun up would be preferable. The Helgen Watch is in dire need of more troops. Bandit numbers are on the rise, and the Falmer are spreading south."

Cassius gave a solemn nod in reply. "I shall leave ere the sun rises, then." He swept a short bow to the courier, who returned it in kind. He pulled himself up onto his horse, swept a leg over the saddle and drew up the reins.

"I'll inform the Legion upon my return. Safe travels to you, Captain." The Courier jigged his horse into a fast trot, his form soon gathered up in the snowy darkness. Cassius turned in mild dejection, not at all looking forward to leaving Halesgarden behind him. He had his duty, though, and wouldn't ignore a direct order, especially when he was more needed elsewhere.

"Off to Helgen, eh?"

Cassius glanced up. Standing by the doors of the stable adjoining the Inn, a broadset man in an old weather beaten tunic held aloft a flaming torch. Cassius recognised him at once; It was Grelden. "You heard?" he asked, making his way towards the stable. "You're out late."

Grelden gave a nod and moved out from under the eaves, lightly limping on every left step."Aye. I'm preparing my horse. Just so happens I'm leaving for Skyrim on the 'morrow. Perhaps we could travel together. The road isn't a safe place to travel alone. Even for a Watch Captain."

A strange offer, considering that Grelden had been something of a loner since moving to the Shires. Ever since catching sight of Grelden's Katana a few days ago and finding out of the veteran's history with the Blades, though, Cassius had been highly interested in finding out more about the man and his life as a guardian of the Emperor. "A kind offer, which I accept gladly." Cassius gave a short bow of thanks.

"We'll set out at 4am sharp." Grelden replied. "There's been some heavy snow storms in the pass before the border, so we may need to find another way around." Pulling the gate closed, Grelden gave one final nod before setting off up the main street towards his home, leaving Cassius' mind buzzing with curiousity.

...

"Stop, Thief!" The booming command of the guards echoed through the stone-walled sewers of the Imperial City, the flickering torchlight bouncing off the walls, the heavy boots stomping through the shallow and murky waters. No less than five heavily armored soldiers stormed the waterways, chasing down yet another thief. The thief in question, was Ma'kiir.

The Khajiit's light clothing and fleet feet gave him the advantage in such a place over the cumbersome guards who were more heavily armored than a Dragon, so he wasn't too worried about being caught today. The fact, however, that they had addressed him by name was more worrisome. Over the span of his career, Ma'kiir had had several close calls. But never had he been approached in the middle of the day, accused (rightly) as being a member of the the Thieves Guild, and heard his own name from a guard's mouth. Of course, they'd addressed him as "Ma'kiir the Simple", a monicker he'd earned from his time on the Waterfront, but still...

His ears twitched as he rounded a corner and came to a fork in the tunnel. The guards were a ways behind him, and he wanted to throw them off the trail. The left fork, he knew, led to a commonly known exit not far from the Gates of the City. The right fork would also lead him to freedom, yet hardly any (save for a few members of the Guild) knew where it led, or what was down there. The Cat quickly tore a strip of fabric from his sleeve and impaled it upon a rusty iron gateway, kicking over a long forgotten barrel towards the left fork, and slinked away into the shadows of the other path, moving swiftly and silently. A few moments later, he heard the booming thuds of booted feet, and heard cries of "He went this way!" before they receeded into the darkness. Smiling to himself, Ma'kiir slowed his pace to a more relaxed speed, ambling down the passage way. Before long, he caught a glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel, and emerged through the gate, the iron squealing in objection on rusty hinges.

"Ah, Ma'kiir the Not-so-Crafty." A sly voice met Ma'kiir's ears, and he swivelled on the spot, glancing up to see a Bosmer sitting lazily on the protruding rock above the gateway, his auburn hair pulled back into a pony-tail and a smirk on his lips. "This has to be some kind of record. You've gone from being a mentally touched vagrant on the Waterfront to the most wanted thief in Cyrodiil." The Bosmer swung a leg over the rock and hopped down, dusting off the his trousers. "How do you feel, friend?" he asked, that grin fixed firmly in place.

"You may laugh, Thorn." Ma'kiir replied, lowering his hood. "But Ma'kiir is the one with a price on his head. He wonders how the Guards knew his name. Perhaps some lowly pointy-eared theif grew jealous of Ma'kiir's superior skills and wanted him out of the way, yes?" He chuckled, grinning a toothy grin.

"Oh believe me, the thought has crossed my mind more than once. But I'm afraid that the Nord you robbed just a few days ago in the Market was one Joran Stone-Wall, head of the Skyrim Merchant's Guild. He's very anti-thief, don't you know? Sees people like us as worse than murderers." Thorn snickered. "Seems you need to work on researching your marks, Ma'kiir."

Ma'kiir felt like a lead weight had dropped into his stomach. "Head..Merchants Guild... Oh, Dibella..." Ma'kiir smacked a hand to his forehead, his grin vanished. "This one feels as though this mess won't vanish overnight... Ma'kiir has really put his foot in it this time." He half-wailed.

"Probably not overnight, but in due time." Thorn replied reassuringly, clapping Ma'kiir on the shoulder. "Why not take a holiday, until this all blows over?" He suggested. "You know, hit the open road, see the sights."

"But..." Ma'kiir scratched the back of his head. "Where would Ma'kiir go? He imagines that he will be hunted in every County from Leyawin to Anvil."

"Hmm..." Thorn rubbed his chin, glancing out over the waterway towards the South. "Skyrim. I hear the Riften Guild are planning a big heist soon, and they could certainly use someone like you. Any job they have will be child's play, compared to the White Gold Bank heist."

The White Gold Bank heist was one of the biggest thieving operations ever seen in Cyrodiil. It had taken years of planning, but the Guild had put together a team of their best (Both Thorn and Ma'kiir had been on that list), and had successfully stolen 500,000 Septims from the Inner Vault. The Gold had been dispersed throughout the Sewers for the escape, loaded into wagons, and drawn to safe houses spread from Cheydinhal to Chorral. "Ma'kiir thinks this is a capital idea." The Cat muttered after a few moments of thought. "He'll stay away from the Imperial Guards, and line his pockets with Gold at the same time."

"Two birds with one stone." Thorn gave a chuckle and a nod. "My horse is tethered at a small Inn just down the road. You may take him, if you wish."

"Horses cannot climb as well as Ma'kiir." Ma'kiir replied mischieviously. "His trip will be much quicker on foot, although he thanks you for your kindness." He added a small bow, then raised his hood once more. "Fair fortunes, Thorn."

"And to you, friend."

Ma'kiir set off up the path towards the Waterfront, a mild apprehension touching his mind. He needed to get his effects from his hut, and he knew the guards would be there in force, but that wasn't the trouble. Fear of possible capture by the Imperial Guards was nothing, _nothing_, compared to Ma'kiir's extreme dislike of the cold.

...

Sognvir lay face down on the icy floor of the cave, his muscular form covered in lacerations, his hands drenched in blood. Around him, the corpses of no less than 30 Falmer lay twisted and broken, some dismembered and decapitated. Utilising the Werewolf blood in his veins, the Nord had transformed into the creature and torn apart the viscious, blinded elves. The sheer numbers, though, had almost defeated him.

With a groan of pain, Sognvir slowly pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, feeling as though at least one rib was broken, his face blood-stained, his left eye squeezed shut. The snow-elves hadn't gone down without a fight, and now that he was back to his human form, Sognvir was feeling every cut and stab wound. He tore an arrow from his thigh with a savage snarl, binding the wound with a piece of cloth, and staggered to his feet.

The injuries were rather severe, and Sognvir wondered if perhaps he would be seeing Sovngarde today, rather than Jorrvaskar. If he did go to the halls of his fathers fathers, he went with pride. He'd slain many foes, and avenged the deaths of his comrades in arms. A true warriors death. But, Sognvir had no plans of laying down and dying today. He gathered up the loose pieces of his armor and replaced them, then scooped up his battle axe and, using it as a blind man would use a staff, limped gingerly back up the icy tunnel, moving with slow, exhausted paces.

It took him some time to reach the cave's mouth, and even longer to stagger back towards the road. The horses they'd tied up to a tree where the road met the path to the cave had either been stolen or bolted, and Sognvir growled under his breath. Those damn horses would have been a life saver right now.

Helgen wasn't too far away, and Sognvir knew of a Healer who often visited the township. He prayed to Talos that the Healer was indeed in town, and set off up the road. If help didn't come soon, the big Nord would surely bleed out before nightfall.

Within an hour (the trip normally took just a few minutes on horseback), Sognvir stumbled drunkenly towards Helgen's gates, his breath hitching in his chest. An Imperial Guard standing by the gate saw him approaching, noticed his labored footfalls , and made his way over to him, taking one of Sognvir's arms and pulling it over his shoulders. "What happened to you?" he asked in concerned tones, pulling him towards the gates.

"The Falmer." Sognvir muttered weakly. "Is... is the healer in town?"

"I'm afraid not." Replied the guard. "But, I believe there's a mage from the College staying at the Inn. Perhaps he's familiar with Restoration magic.. I'll take you there, and see if any of the merchants in town have any potions for sale."

"My thanks, Imperial."

"Don't thank me yet."

Down the winding cobbled road, past the Blacksmith, and into the quiet Dragon Inn. The room was completely empty, save for the barmaid wiping down a few tables, and a robed man sitting by the fire, a heavy tome open on his lap, a raven perched on a tarnished brass cup on the table, occasionally dipping his beak into the goblet. The mage glanced up from his book as the guard and Sognvir entered, and the raven gave a short warble.

"You there, Mage." The guard called, helping Sognvir into a tall-backed chair. "This man needs healing. Are you capable with Restorative magics?"

Gharoth glanced around the room, perhaps wondering if there was another mage present. "Me?" he asked.

"No, the pigeon on the table." The Guard barked, gesturing to Archie, which earned him a sharp caw and a beady stare. "Yes, you! Can you perform healing spells?"

"I... I... Well yes of course." He laid a placemarker in his book and snapped it closed, slowly and awkwardly rising from his chair. Subconsciously, he held an arm out, and Archie hopped onto his wrist, strolled up his arm and perched himself comfortably on Gharoth's shoulder as they moved across the room.

"Then heal this man. He's had a run in with the Falmer. I'm going to see if I can scrounge up a potion or two." With that, the guard turned on his heel and marched back out into the late afternoon sun.

Gharoth knelt beside Sognvir's hulking form, rolling up his sleeves. He flexed his fingers, wisps of blue aura twirling around them. Before he could begin, however, Sognvir seized his wrist, looking over the mage with his one good eye. "Are ye sure you can do this, lad?" he asked gruffly. "I'd rather bleed out than sprout horns."

"I've done this a million times, friend." Gharoth replied calmly. "You need not fear horns, humps, scales or tails from this mage." Sognvir continued to stare beadily at the young mage for a moment, then, when he felt satisfied, he gave him a short nod. Immediately, that blue aura spread from Gharoth's finger tips to just above his wrists, and, holding his hands around 4 inches away from Sognvir's chest, began to work his magic. The aura spread across Sognvir's form, and the Nord could feel the lacerations knitting together, the swelling and bruises dying down, his fractured ribs mending. Soon, he was completely healed.

"Right as rain." Gharoth rose and rolled down his sleeves, giving Sognvir one final glance over. His wounds had healed nicely, although there would be some heavy scaring to his torso, not to mention the ghastly slash running from his eyebrow to his jaw. He rummaged in the satchel on his hip for a few moments, then pulled out a small bottle of green liquid. "Stamina draught." He tossed the bottle to Sognvir, who deftly caught it. "Should get you back on your feet quickly."

"I am in your debt, Breton." Sognvir rose from his chair, setting the bottle down on a nearby table and held his hand out. "Sognvir Ice-Hammer, at your service."

The Mage glanced at the hand for a moment, almost unsure of himself in the situation, then grasped hands with the bigger man. "Gharoth Faar, at yours." He replied. "And this feathered thorn in my side is Archie." he added, gesturing to the Raven on his shoulder. Archie ruffled his feather and cooed in mild indignation at the introduction.

"This Raven is your familiar?" Sognvir asked, glancing at the bird. "What powers does he possess?"

"The power of being the most annoying creature with two legs. The ability to give bad directions which almost _always_ ends up leading to a bandit camp or a troll den. And he's completely tone-deaf as well."

"I..." At first, Sognvir thought the mage was having a joke with him. But, when Gharoth didn't replicate the grin on his face, he arched a brow curiously. "Ye don't talk to people often, do ye?"

Gharoth glanced around. "No, not really." he replied with a shrug. "Most of my time is spent studying, or out in the wilderness on research. It's usually just Archie and I."

"I see... Well, nevertheless, I am in your debt." he said gravely. "If you ever require my assistance, seek me out in Jorrvaskar."

"I will." Gharoth gave the Nord a polite bow, which Archie mimicked, perched on his shoulder. "Safe travels on your journey home, Companion."


	4. Chapter 3

[So sorry for the delay!

Rest assured, this project is still in the works. But, due to my laptop crashing and dying, I now have to write everything on my phone (meaning endless spelling/grammatical errors) and email it to myself on a desktop and upload from there. Also, I've recently moved house, and the nearest accessible computer to me is about 45 minutes away. That being said, Chapter Four is about halfway completed, and should be uploaded within the week/fortnight.

Thanks for sticking around and reading! Let me know what you think.]

**The Daedra's Wrath**

_(A Lord of the Rings/The Elder Scrolls Crossover)_

Chapter Three

Sauron's true form was something awful to behold. A tall, dark, towering figure, ten feet in height, clad in hideous black armour like a scaled obsidian skin. Dead white eyes glowed through circular slots in his horned helm, and a colossal mace was girt by his side.

Standing at the gates of Barad-ûr, the Daedric Prince of Death stretched out a gauntleted hand, the one ring gleaming in the fires of Mordor. The bare, ashen earth trembled, the lines of fiery script glowing around the band of the ring, and Sauron chanted in the uncouth Black Speech of Mordor. Two fissures in the ground cracked open, tendrils of foul smoke pouring forth in a cloudy haze.

The Dark Lord's chanting grew more vicious, almost snarling the words, and he clenched his iron fist. The smoke took on a squared form almost at once, tongues of fire licking at the the smog, and on the other side, through the smoke, a hazy apparition of a dark stone chamber swam into view. Beneath the macabre mask, Sauron smiled a grotesque smile.

His time had come.

In the crushing shadows of Bleak Falls Barrow, inside a sealed, hidden room (a hidden room a certain young Breton Mage and his Raven had so desperately tried to uncover), a replica of Sauron's Ash Portal shimmered into existence. Through the power of the Ring, the Dark Lord had breached the walls between realms, and he stepped through the fiery gate, bathed in a pale radiance.

The chamber was high ceilinged, roughly hewn stone from wall to wall. Completely bare, it seemed completely unremarkable, aside from the nine vertical tombs, made from pressed obsidian glass and sealed with Daedric metal clasps and chains. Sauron's eyes swept across the room, to the tombs, and the barren torch brackets built into the wall. "Ghâsh." he whispered, and the room was bathed in a sickly orange glow, fire springing to life in the receptacles. He raised his hand, sweeping it around in front of him, and the chains around the caskets burned white hot. With a hiss and a crack, they melted to nothing, becoming no more than grey ash. A stout boom of thunder followed as Sauron clenched a fist, and the clasps exploded, the tomb doors blasting outwards and falling to the ground. "Awaken, my Nazgul." he called into the shadows.

As one, nine tall, cloaked figures swept from the standing tombs. Grim and foreboding, their dead faces were concealed within the shadows of hoods, cold steel covered their hands and feet, some bearing pale blades, others ornate and cold axes. The Eight Jarls of Skyrim and their High King, who swore fealty and their blades to Sauron in his conquest of the First Era, in return for 9 magical rings. Blinded by greed and the promise of power, the Jarls accepted these handsome gifts without question, yet the price was more terrible than they could have ever imagined; Total servitude to Sauron, until the ends of time. Now, they all surrounded the Dark Lord, drawing their blades and axes with a ringing clamour, and dropped to a knee. "We are yours to command, Lord of Mordor."

Sauron regarded his faithful servants, the light crackle of flame the only sound in the tomb. "Build me an army." he spoke in gravelly tones.

"The will of Sauron will be done." the Nazgul replied as one.

Sauron knew there were many men in the world who would bend to his will. Black of heart and ambition, the ruffians, killers and thieves of Tamriel would swear allegiance to the Lord of Mordor at the promise of power and wealth. And, with the help of the Nazgul, Sauron began to compile a list of potential recruits. He sent emissaries out across the lands.

The doors of Castle Volkihar remained closed, and no gatekeeper answered the summons. The Goblins of Cyrodiil, who were created by Sauron's own hand accepted his offers of allegiance most willing, as did several knots of the blinded Falmer sect. Even the greater mercenary and bandit clans received messages from the Lord of Death.

In the hills West of Dawnstar, a broken tower rose like a bleak obelisk against the cloudy skies, men pacing its outer walls, their breath coming out in puffs of mist, while the yards rang to the sound of clashing metal. The keen-eyed sentries were most visibly shocked when a heavy, steel fist smote the iron door with a ringing boom, and a high cold voice called, "I am an emissary for the Lord Sauron, here to treat with the one named Althan Mabari. Open, in the name of Mordor!"

Archers lined the battlements, arrows nocked and strings taut, training the iron tips of their arrows on the silhouette of a dark horseman in the swirling snow. The horse gave a snort and a shriek, rearing underneath it's evil rider. "Tell yer Lord Sauron t' stick 'is treaties where the sun don't shine!" one of the mercenaries roared, to raucous laughter from his chums, who slowly lowered their bows. "On yer way, stranger!"

No sooner had the man spat out his words, his throat visibly constricted, strangled gasps of air choking from his mouth. He clawed at his throat, while the men on the battlements stared in horror. "Open... In the name of Mordor..."

"Open the gates!" the man choked. "Open the gates!"

The men below rushed to the gate, sliding back heavy iron bolts, yanking the gates inwards. The rider jigged his mount forward into the yard, completely unperturbed by the sea of pikes and blades surrounding him. As he approached the keep, the door swung open, and an armoured Dunmer stepped out onto the cobbled stones, wearing an almost bored expression on his tattooed face. "Althan Mabari?" the rider questioned, reigning the midnight black horse to a halt.

Althan nodded solemnly. "What brings you here, rider?" he asked, resting his hand on the hilt of the dagger in his belt. "Why have you sought the Red-Eye Rogues?"

"I have been sent to broker an alliance." The Nazgul replied, his voice a hiss. "The Lord of Mordor seeks allies. And those who serve him faithfully are rewarded beyond their wildest dreams."

"Forgive me, friend." Althan replied, his lip curling. "But in my experience with War Lords, they're as likely to kill their friends as foes."

"Sauron is no mere warlord, Althan. He is Daedra, a Prince no less."

The Dunmer fell silent. So, this Lord of Mordor was a Daedric Prince? Well, that certainly explained why Althan had never heard the name Sauron, nor even the realm of Mordor. Apparently, like Sheogorath, Hermaeus Mora, Mehrunes Dagon, Hircine, and the other Princes, Sauron commanded his own Plane of Oblivion. An alliance with the Daedra wasn't one to be taken lightly, and more often than not, the Daedric Princes killed their followers for their own amusement.

Althan felt though, that this wasn't the case with Sauron. The lesser Princes (which Sauron must be, due to his name not being known to the Dunmer Battlemage) rewarded their servants with gold and power and gifts beyond their wildest imaginations.

And Althan wasn't about to let that ship sail.

The young Dark Elf sized up his options, then provided a short, respectful bow to the Nazgul. "I believe we may be able to help each other, friend. Let us speak in private."

While Althan and the black rider spoke in the room atop Fort Redeye's Keep, another Nazgul rider galloped across the Alik'r desert, a rooster tail of dust kicking up as his steed tore across the sands. A thin column of smoke rose in the distance, twirling up from the base of a rocky mesa where, the Nazgul knew, a Redguard Bandit and his crew resided. At the foot of the mesa, a large animal skin canopy was stretched across the camp above a fire pit, where charred Skeevers and coyotes roasted on iron spits. In a roughly built throne of bone and hide, the Redguard bandit Barbas lifted his head at the sound of the approaching rider.

There were five other men in the camp on that day, and they hastily scrambled to their feet, drawing cutlasses from their belts, grim faces framed within the folds of weather-stained turbans. The rider reigned his horse just shy of the canopy, provided his greeting, and declared his offer on behalf of Sauron, Lord of Mordor.

Barbas rose slowly, his ringed hand sliding his own blade from his belt, a gust of breeze blowing through his shaggy, shoulder length hair. "If your master truly knows of me and mine, then he was a fool to send you here, seeking aid and succour." The Redguard replied, his deep and heavily accented voice dripping with disdain and scorn. "The Alik'r need no allies, rider. We do, however..." a thin smile curled his lip. "... Require horses and steel. Boys, relieve our friend!"

With a roar, the Alik'r charged, brandishing their swords, and the Nazgul reared his horse, a ring of steel heralding his own blade as he leaped to the ground. The cold metal clashed with the cutlass of the Alik'r, and the Nazgul checked a slash and parried a stab. He thrust his sword deep into the chest of one, and in the same movement, broke the jaw of another attacker with a gauntleted fist. A short dagger was produced from the folds of the Wraith's cloak, and he slashed the throat of a third combatant.

Deep red lifeblood dripped from the tip of the Nazgul's blade as he turned to face the remaining two warriors. By now, Barbas had joined the fray, his arrogant smirk now a mask of anger, tightly clenching his fists around the handles of twin shortswords. "Rethink your actions, Redguard..." The Nazgul whispered. Barbas ignored the suggestion. His two men lunged forward towards the cloaked ghoul, slashing and stabbing, but the Nazgul parried and dodged as though this was nothing more than practice duels in a training yard. With two deft counters, Barbas was on his own.

"What are you?!" the Redguard snarled, backing away.

"I am an emissary of Lord Sauron." he hissed in reply. "And you will show me respect." The Nazgul stared blankly for a moment at Barbas, face concealed beneath the cloak. The Alik'r soldier mouthed silently, terror etched in every line of his face. "I shall return in 3 days. I strongly suggest you rethink your attitude towards Mordor's messengers, Barbas. Remember what happened here today." In a single, fluid movement, the rider mounted his black horse and seized the reigns, the steed snorted and shrieked, and he galloped off towards the horizon.

Not all of Sauron's targets were ruffians and vagabonds, however. Much like his Daedric brethren, the Prince of Death had worship shrines dotted across the landscape of Tamriel. But, due to the fighting between the Dark Brotherhood and Sauron's Followers, the shrines had fallen into decay, and were now no more than misshapen stone pillars. The elements had worn the features away, and vandals had taken anything of value, including the rounded diamonds crafted into the eyes. One such shrine was nestled in the hills of Colovia, near the border of Skyrim. No one had visited the shrine for hundreds, thousands of years.

Until now.

A trio of young travellers, making the trek from Leyawin to Solitude stumbled across the shrine in the mountains. A young Imperial woman, with her Breton lover and Khajiit companion stepped into the clearing, staring open-mouthed in awe at the obelisk. "Would you look at /this/!" the Breton muttered, running a hand across the rounded edge of the shrine.

"I don't like it, Junor." the woman said quietly. She cast her gaze around the clearing, staring through the trees. "It feels like we're being watched..."

Junor apparently didn't hear her. "What do you think this is, Rhazi?" he asked over his shoulder to the cat. "Daedra worship? An old shrine to Talos?"

"I... Cannot make out the markings... But this is no Daedra I have ever heard of. The posture is unfamiliar to these eyes." Rhazi informed, peering at the statue.

"Lord Sauron had hoped to find more of you here..." A cold voice, like an icy wind on dead leaves slithered across the air, and the three travellers spun hastily, searching for the source. "He will be pleased, however, to find those still loyal to him, after so many years." A tall figure stepped through the trees, robed in black, wicked and foreboding. The trio huddled together in fear.

"L-loyal? Lord Sauron? I... I think you're mistaken..." Junor stammered, finding voice. "We are merely travellers..."

"Travellers..." The Nazgul hissed. "Then you are of no use to Mordor." The ringwraith drew his blade, and painted the snow red.


	5. Chapter 4

The Daedra's Wrath

_(A Lord of the Rings/The Elder Scrolls Crossover)_

Chapter Four

"Are you hurt, Captain Malacabre?!"

Face down in the snow, Cassius lifted his head towards the call. The sudden avalanche had spooked his horse, and the steed had reared and snorted, tossing Cassius from the saddle, and bolted back down the road towards Colovia. Grumbling under his breath, the Watchman pushed himself to his feet, patting the powdery snow from his leather doublet. "I'm alright, Grelden." he called through the wall of ice. "My horse bolted with my supplies, but I'm unharmed."

On the other side, Grelden struggled with his own mount, patting the horse's chestnut flank. "Can you see a way through?"

Loth as he was to admit it, the entire

passage was blocked from cliff to cliff. "Nay, and I dare not climb it. Curse this rotten luck!" Cassius spat, kicking a nearby branch in frustration. "By the time I clear this by hand, winter will have come and gone."

"You needn't shift the wall by hand, Captain." Grelden replied, a hint of a smile on his face. "There's an old path about 100 yards behind you. It'll take you to a disused crossing in the hills. It's the long way around, but it'll get you over the border easily enough. I'll wait for you on the other side."

Cassius listened as Grelden whipped the reins, jigging his horse onward up the road, all the while cursing the avalanche. He estimated they'd lose several hours due to the backtracking and loss of horse. With bitter thoughts, Cassius turned, headed back down the road.

The night's snow had laid a thin drift across the disused path, and Cassius found it very rough going indeed. The snow had fallen a good foot thick, and before too long, his socks were sodden inside his tanned leather boots. He created a rise, panting lightly from the climb, and pressed on downwards through a knot of barren pines. A lesser man would have gotten lost amidst the tangle of trees and thorny bushes, but the Captain's superior tracking and hiking skills allowed him to keep to the path. Up ahead, the trees seemed to thin, and he felt his heart lighten for the first time since the avalanche. Beyond the clearing ahead, twin peaks rose sheer and sharp, marking the passage through the mountains and into Skyrim.

The clearing was empty, save for two stone statues. One, of an old misshapen and weather beaten God, the other standing a few feet away from the towering effigy, slightly taller than Cassius himself. It wasn't until the smaller of the two turned its head and hissed that Cassius realised it wasn't stone at all. The black cloak was covered in snow and ice, making it seem almost grey in appearance, and when it moved, Cassius unsheathed his sword. There was something that just felt... Wrong, about this grim spectre. "Who comes to the Shrine of Sauron?" the figure whispered.

A Daedra worshipper. Usually harmless, often radically zealous in their devotion... Sometimes murderous and deadly. Cassius had had past run-ins with the cultists, but now, he was more concerned with crossing the border at the present. This dark fellow seemed content to stand steady vigil at the broken shrine, and Cassius was more than willing to allow him to preach to the wolves and birds of the area. "A busy man." He said bluntly. "I was caught in an avalanche near the border, and have been forced to backtrack. I cannot linger and offer your Lord my services, however. I have urgent business in Sky-" He broke off, spying three mounds lying at the foot of the shrine. The one in the centre had something that looked oddly like a booted foot protruding from the rounded edge of the mound. "Murderer." he muttered, the pieces falling into place. "In the name of the Emperor, I command you to lay down any weapons on your person and fall to your knees." He raised his blade. "You're under arrest."

The Nazgul hissed. It may have been derisive laughter. "The name of your Emperor invokes no fear in me, mortal. I only answer to the summons of Mordor." Cold steel rang out across the clearing, and the Nazgul raised his own blade, stepping lithely through the snow. With a high, piercing shriek, he swung the sword high and fast, and Cassius met the blow, stumbling back under the force of the collision. Within seconds, he was forced to guard again, a tremor running up the bones in his arm.

This was no run of the mill Daedra nut, he surmised. No cultist /he/ ever saw wielded a blade with such precision, speed and strength. In fact, it was all he could do to protect himself, moving nimbly backwards to avoid having his guts spilled out on the snow. He parried, checked, sidestepped and dodged, until finally, he saw his chance.

The Nazgul had swung too fiercely, aiming for a killing blow. Cassius leaned backwards, avoiding the savage swipe, and pivoting, rammed his shoulder into the cloaked man's chest. With a shriek of rage, the Nazgul staggered, his blade falling from his grasp as he slipped, crashing into the stone shrine. "Yield or perish!" Cassius shouted, positioning himself and squaring his shoulders.

Slowly, the Nazgul rose to his feet. "I think not, Imperial. A Nazgul is not so easily bested..." The creature sucked in a deep breath, leaning backwards. "Fus... RO DAH!" A howl of wind burst from the Nazgul, the sound of his Thu'um echoing around the gully. Cassius was lifted off his feet, soaring into the air, slammed into a tree, and knew no more.

He awoke some time later, slung across a horse, a flickering torch swimming in his blurred vision. Slowly, as the shadows crept from his sight, he dimly made out Grelden's blunt featured profile striding along beside the steed. "Where... Am I?" he muttered groggily, pressing a hand to his aching temple. He could feel dried blood around a shallow wound.

"Not far from Helgen." Grelden replied gruffly. "I heard a boom of thunder from the pass and assumed you'd gotten stuck again. A good thing, too. If I'd waited any longer, I would have been trying to find you in the dark, and you'd have frozen before sunrise. What happened down there? I saw no signs of an avalanche."

"That's because there was none." Groaning, Cassius swung himself down off the horse. He longed for his pipe and tobacco, but his own mount had bolted with the last of his weed.

Grelden looked at the Ranger long and hard, eyes puzzling beneath his thick eyebrows. "Tell me what happened."

Cassius embarked upon his tale, beginning with the avalanche that split them up. He told the grizzled ex-Blade about his discovery of the shrine, the zealous cultist, the hastily buried corpses. When he uttered the name of Sauron, and the land of Mordor, all colour seemed to drain from Grelden's face as he blanched visibly. "This stranger..." he muttered, finally meeting eyes with the ranger. There was trepidation in his eyes. "He commanded the Thu'um, didn't he?"

"Thu'um?" Cassius dropped his gaze, racking his mind. "I'm not sure I know the word. It sounds familiar, however. Like a name in a barely remembered story."

"Tis a Nordic word. Few aside from the sons of Skyrim know of it. My father was a Nord, and my bedtime stories told of mighty warriors who fought not just with steel and iron and magic, but with their voice. They could ignite hearth and home with a phrase, break down stone with a roar, freeze the leaves off the trees with a whisper. This mighty strength was released through words of power, called a Shout." Grelden didn't need verbal affirmation; the look on Malacabre's face spoke volumes. "That explains the thunder I heard before I set out to find you. Gods, these are bleak tidings indeed."

"But what does it all mean?" Cassius queried, shooting a glance at his grim companion. "Who is this Sauron?" Grelden fell silent. His eyes were downcast and solemn, and he seemed to be lost in thought. Cassius was on the verge of prompting the old soldier once again, when he shook his head.

"These aren't topics for idle chat while the sun is sleeping." he muttered darkly. From his tone, Cassius could tell that no amount of questioning would yield the answers he so sought. "I'll return to Helgen in around a week. I'll explain everything I know then."

The pressed cobblestone path turned a corner ahead, sloping down as the trees thinned, and twinkling torchlight could be seen ahead, marking Helgen's position on the road. As much as Cassius longed to know more about his mysterious assailant, his heart was suddenly glad at the thought of a roaring fire, warm mead, and hot roasted meat.

At the fork in the path to Helgen, Cassius and Grelden said brief farewells. "You saved my life today, Grelden." Cassius said solemnly as they gripped hands.

Grelden shook his head. "Think nothing of it lad. You'd have done the same for me, I'm sure." The grizzled veteran swung himself up onto his horse one handed, tightly gripping the reins in one hand, his flaming torch in another. "I hope your new posting fares you well, Captain." Grelden dug his heels into the mare, turning her down the path into the woods, and before long, he was swallowed up in the trees.

Cassius set off towards Helgen, his mind weighed down by everything that happened today. None of it made sense at all; A powerful warrior of legend, rising from the shadows to stand as preacher to an unknown Daedric master? The Ranger couldn't make heads or tails of it, and his throbbing skull wasn't helping things. Silently, he prayed to the Divines that they'd give him the morning off; he needed to rest, and think.

He found the Barracks easy enough, and after a brief introduction with the Watchman on duty, he was led to the Captain's quarters. It was a bare room, with pine walls and flooring, an iron chair and scuffed writing desk in one corner, a comfortable looking straw bed in another. The hearth was barren, the grate cold, but a supply of wood and kindling had been supplied, and a few strikes of his flint and tinder was enough to start a merrily crackling fire, bathing the room in warmth and light. "Home sweet home." he muttered drily, kicking off his stained and soaked leather boots and socks, hanging them by the fire to dry.

Despite his exhaustion, sleep would not come to him. He took a satchel of tobacco and a flagon of mead from the stores, and stared into the fire, puffing thoughtfully at his pipe. It wasn't the attack in the mountains, nor the stranger's words that unsettled him so much as Grelden's reaction. The veteran had seen much in his life, no doubt. And his place amongst the Blades was testament to his stout bravery. But, in the flickering light of the torch on the march to Helgen, Cassius saw trepidation, unease, even fear in Grelden's eyes.

This much was plain to Cassius; Grelden knew something. More than he was letting on, at any rate. His tired mind conjured up pictures of a younger Travias Grelden, sitting in a dark room, surrounded by books of arcane lore and Daedric knowledge. Absurd, but anything was possible. All he knew was that he'd have to wait for the seasoned veteran's return to Helgen, and that worrying and over thinking wouldn't help at all. His duty was now with the Watchmen of Helgen, not fretting about the Daedra and their servants.


	6. Chapter 5

******The Daedra's Wrath**

___(A Lord of the Rings/The Elder Scrolls Crossover)_

_Chapter 5_

**As Cassius finally drifted off into uneasy sleep, a chilly breeze whipped through Riften's streets on the opposite side of Skyrim, rattling the wooden stalls of the Markets, and the group of beggars standing around a drum fire huddled closer for warmth. The furthest Hold south in the entire realm, Riften had a more temperate weather pattern than the northern Holds, and this cold wind was unseasonably frosty.**

**"1 o' the Watch and all's well!" A voice boomed out across the dwellings. "Changing of the Guard!" The Guardsmen who had been huddling in narrow recesses of stone and under the eaves of buildings to fight off the chill moved away on cue, moving swiftly through the streets towards the warmth and light of the Barracks, eager to get indoors and rug up. At the same time, one of the beggars slipped away from the fire, down a shadowed alley beside the Inn.**

**Since leaving Thorn beside the Sewers of the Imperial City, Ma'kiir hadn't wasted any time progressing on to Skyrim. The cat hitched a ride with some Khajiit merchants on the way to Bruma, and from there passed on into the mountains (sneaking a satchel of supplies from Sky Ruler Temple, the home of the Blades, along the way) and wound his way through disused paths and craggy passes into Skyrim itself. The journey was smooth, aside from a wolf pack catching the cat's scent a few miles from Riften. If Ma'kiir feared anything, it was wolves. The braying howls of the dark canines chased the poor Khajiit all the way to the gates of the Holdfast. **

**Ma'kiir received a warm welcome in the Ragged Flagon from Silas, the Nord guild master of Riften, and was immediately recruited for a high level heist. The target, said Silas, was a rich Breton, who owned Brightwater Manor near Riften's docks. Aside from large amounts of gold and jewels, Alabastor Corthwaite owned a set of exceptionally valuable daggers, all (reputedly) owned by an ancient Dwemer King, and worth more than the Jarl's treasury. With a sly smile, Ma'kiir told Silas that they were as good as his. The crafty feline scouted the city under his usual beggar facade. And, in doing so, learned the rotation of the guards, figured the safest path to the house, and even, an escape route. With everything set out before him, Ma'kiir hatched his plans.**

**Keeping his hood up, the Khajiit scaled a nearby home by climbing a short garden wall and onto the thatched roof, balancing on the narrow beam at a crouch, and moved stealthily towards another home nearby. He jumped, landing with both feet on the railing of a balcony, and pulled himself swiftly onto the next roof. Ma'kiir scurried across the rooftop, then the next, and soon, the Manor was his final stop. He took off at a run, grabbing onto a hanging flag pole which jutted from the wall, and swinging like a trapeze acrobat, launched himself towards the open bedroom window. Silently, he pulled himself up and onto the sill, slipping into the window, and landed lightly on the floor. His approach had been so silent, that the dark robed figure by the bed didn't even turn around; Merely withdrew the bloodied dagger from the sleeping Breton's chest, wiping the sharpened blade on the dead man's blankets. "Sithis take you, Alabastor Corthwaite..." The figure muttered into the night. Ma'kiir had stumbled upon a Dark Brotherhood killing. Fear took him at once.**

**He quickly weighed up his options; Slip his dagger from his belt, move swiftly across the room and cut the assassin's throat, stealing the small chest of daggers in his escape, or tiptoe backwards, clamber out the window, and try again. Ma'kiir was no hero, so it was clear which option he preferred. Fleeing with his tail between his legs and running back to the Guild empty handed seemed far more attractive than trying to kill a skilled assassin. Even though it meant being mocked for flunking the heist.**

**But, as he slowly stepped backwards, a sudden bout of valour hit him; he wasn't going home with nothing to show. Ma'kiir had a silver tongue when he needed it. Time to put it into use. "Forgive the intrusion, friend." he said quietly. **

**In a flash, the assassin (a Bosmer, Ma'kiir deduced from the man's height) sprung across the room, slamming Ma'kiir against the wall and pressing his dagger to the cat's throat. "A foolish move, sneaking up on a hunter of the night..." the cloaked figure hissed, his face hidden beneath the hood.**

**Ma'kiir's eyes widened in horror, not daring to move a muscle. He could feel the blade pressing sharply against his windpipe, and he let out a short gasp. "Completely accidental, this one assures you. He was merely here to complete a job for his friends..."**

**"Friends..." the figure's eyes swept the Khajiit's form, taking in the supple tanned leather outfit and hood. "The Thieves Guild."**

**"Yes, yes. Ma'kiir's friends sent him here to relieve the Breton of a few choice items. His discovery of you was not intentional..." he paused for effect. "Perhaps... Perhaps we two can arrange something. Perhaps we can both walk away unharmed."**

**"Is that a threat, cat?" The assassin growled, tightening his hold. "You're foolish enough to believe you could kill me?"**

**"Ma'kiir would never be so foolish to believe such a thing." the cat muttered. "But he can scream quite loudly. Loudly enough to rouse the guards. Although, he hopes we can move past such things."**

**The Dark Brother sized up the Thief, hearing the truth in his words. He could slit his throat, but doubtless, the cat would manage one strangled yell for the guards. There was a chance he could escape, but it wasn't a risk he wanted to take. So, slowly, he pulled the blade from his throat, taking a step back. "Very well, 'Ma'kiir'... What do you propose?"**

**"That we both do the jobs we came here to do, and part ways." Ma'kiir knew Assassins (especially those in the Dark Brotherhood) had some semblance of honour. He also knew that they rarely killed unless there was a profit to be made. And, he knew no bounty would come from killing a poor old Khajiit. Still, he almost couldn't believe his eyes when the Bosmer nodded his agreement.**

**"Very well, Ma'kiir." he said quietly, sheathing the dagger at his belt and tightening his gloves. "I suggest you move swiftly. The guards will-" A creaking floorboard caused the elf's sudden silence. Both thief and killer listened hard into the darkness. "Did you bring accomplices?" The Bosmer asked.**

**"No..." Ma'kiir whispered slowly. "Did... Did you silence Corthwaite's manservant?"**

**"... Manservant? What manservant?"**

**"Who's there?!"**

**The elf's information clearly missed out on the burly Orcish servant who lived with and served Corthwaite. Both Ma'kir and the Bosmer fell silent, hardly daring to breathe. The Khajiit felt a combination of fear and shock, the assassin felt nothing but incredulous surprise that such a vital piece of information was overlooked.**

**"Master Corthwaite?!" the grunting voice boomed from the ground floor, and a moment later, heavy footfalls echoed up the wooden stairwell. Simultaneously, Ma'kiir and the elf slunk back into the shadows; the former to hide, the latter for an ambush. He planned to lunge at the brute as he crossed the threshold and snuff the life from him. But, when the Orc hit the second story landing, his dim, tired eyes caught sight of his master, blood pooling around his chest, and bellowed. "GUARDS!" he roared, pelting towards the room. "SOMEONE'S BEEN MURDERED!"**

**The Wood Elf was on him in a flash. Before the grey-skinned Orsimer knew what was happening, the elf leaped onto his back, dragging his head back by the ponytail and slashed his exposed throat. The Orc coughed, blood gushing from his mortal wound, and crashed to the floor heavily. Outside, iron boots thundered against the pressed stone paths, and a horn was blown in a nearby tower.**

**Reacting instinctively, Ma'kiir leaned out of the window, drawing the shutters inwards, while yells of "HALT, MURDERER!" boomed up at him. When the shutters banged closed, iron tipped arrows crashed against the wood.**

**"What now?!" The elf hissed. He knew that the front door was barred from the inside, but no escape would be found that way; the guards would be on them quicker than you could say "criminal scum". Sure enough, heavy blows smote the door, while rough voices demanded the door be opened in the name of the Jarl. "We're cornered like rats in a trap!"**

**"A cunning rat can escape any trap." Ma'kiir argued quietly, doing his best to remain calm. "And cats are smarter than rats. Fear not, friend. Ma'kiir does not think he is bound for the headsman's block this day. He knows a way out!"**

**The Khajiit beckoned to the disbelieving Elf, leading him down the stairwell and into the foyer. From there, they moved on into the root cellar. "There is a hidden passage to the sewers here." he muttered, while the heavy beating against the door intensified. Past rows of barrels and hanging garlic clusters, to a battered old bookcase in the far corner, where, barely noticeably, a faint and chilly breeze fluttered around the edge. The cat leaned his shoulder into the wood, and pushed it just far enough for the unlikely duo to slip through. Beyond laid a sizeable hole in the stonework, where, Ma'kiir wagered, Skeevers had burrowed their way through, looking for food and warmth from the cold.**

**"You seem to have researched your job far more thoroughly than I." the elf muttered in mild amusement and admiration. **

**"Ma'kiir is exceptional at his line of work." the cat replied with a sly grin, leading the way into the tunnel. Water dripped quietly from the uneven ceiling, as the elf pushed the bookcase back into place with strength his slight frame hid. The floor was slanted and overgrown with moss and fungi, and the dark slowly but surely pressed in on them. **

**Ma'kiir, with his hyper-sensitive eyesight, had no trouble piercing the gloom, acting as guide to his Bosmer companion, and before long, they crawled through a narrow gap in the rock into the sewers itself. "Before we go on," the Bosmer began, dropping down onto the slick stonework beside the Khajiit, "I want to thank you, for getting me out of there." He lowered his hood, revealing pale and pointed features, high cheekbones, and long blonde hair swept back from his widow's peak forehead in a ponytail. "Daelian Carnastiel, Silencer, at your service."**

**Ma'kiir returned the bow. "Ma'kiir, the Crafty, at yours, friend. But now is no time for pleasantries. Only when Ma'kiir breathes free air again will he consider himself out of the fire. And only when his goods have been... Have been..." Ma'kiir broke off, his mouth moving silently. Then, without warning, he let out a howl, falling to his knees and gripping the sides of his head. "Stupid!" he moaned. "Stupid stupid stupid Ma'kiir!"**

**Visibly shocked by this sudden shift in behaviour, Daelian stammered, kneeling beside the cat. "What? What is it?" he asked.**

**"The chest! Ma'kiir forgot the chest!" he rose, tugging his whiskers in frustration. "Without that, his trip to the Manor will be pointless, and he will be the laughing stock of the Guild! And now, the Guards are doubtless everywhere, looking for Ma'kiir!" The Khajiit slumped to his haunches, frustratedly clutching at his fur.**

**"They won't have started removing his effects yet." the Elf said encouragingly. "There's still a chance to claim your prize." The guards would still be a problem, but Daelian held the answer to that as well. "I can lead the guards away, giving you time to slip back in unnoticed and take this chest."**

**Ma'kiir seemed to brighten at the prospect. "Ma'kiir would be in your debt if you could render him such a service." he said, rising and bowing.**

**"Not at all." Daelian replied. "It is I, who is indebted to you. Had you not known about the secret passage here, I would have been stuck in the house, surrounded by guards."**

**Ma'kiir hastily accepted the offer.**

**Before long, the cat stood behind the bookcase in the cellar, waiting for his cue. He could hear footsteps above, and knew the guards were combing the house for clues. Then, a hoarse shout bellowed through the halls. "There he is! After him!" In his minds eye, Ma'kiir could see the guards, drawing keen blades and well-strung bows, their booted feet stomping across the floorboards, and out the door.**

**Pushing the cabinet aside, Ma'kiir slipped into the dusty cellar and up the stairs. The front door was wide open, creaking on its iron hinges, and the house was silent. The cat stole up the stairs with feline litheness, slinking through the shadows of the second floor landing and into the master bedroom. The bodies of Corthwaite and his manservant were lying where they died, but Ma'kiir paid them no heed. It was the safe he needed. He slipped a lock pick out of his pocket and kneeled beside the hefty container, twiddling the locking mechanism, waiting for the telltale snap. When it came, he grinned. "Easy as pie." he muttered, opening the door.**

**His furry hands reached out for the chest, and a steel blade was rested against the back of his neck. "Well well well... Look what we have here..." a voice muttered, dripping with amusement. Before the cat could turn, a heavy, iron fist smote the back of his head, and Ma'kiir passed into sleep.**

**...**

**Ma'kiir awoke an hour later, face down on a thin deerskin bedroll on a cold stone floor. His head throbbed where the blow had struck him, and his vision swam before his slowly waking eyes. Dimly, he could make out thick iron bars, and brightly flickering torches set in brackets along the outer wall. A figure stepped up to the bars and smote them with a hefty iron rod, the cacophony making his already aching head ring with pain.**

**"Wakey wakey!" shouted a familiar voice. "So... A thief and a murderer... Tsk tsk..."**

**Groggily, the cat rose to his feet, placing his hand on the wall for support, and his swimming vision began to clear, revealing a grinning Nord, peering through the bars; The same Nord Ma'kiir had pickpocketted in the Imperial City.**

**"You're destined for the headsman's block, cat." he chuckled sardonically. "I've personally requested that your head be delivered to me. It will look absolutely splendid adorning my hearth. Pray to whatever gods you hold dear." the merchant called, rattling the cell door again. "And please, try not to feel too bad. You won't be feeling much, come sunrise!" The pot-bellied Nord turned and, laughing, made his way out of the dungeons.**

**It was all over. Ma'kiir was as good an escapist as any, but due to the manner of his arrest (and the unforgivable crime he'd been blamed for) there was no chance for the lithe fingered Khajiit to free himself from the stone cell. Resigning himself to his fate, the cat slumped onto his abysmal bed and hung his head.**

**He couldn't even remember falling asleep, but he awoke in total darkness, with only the dim glow of the moon shining through the bars of his tiny window. Confusion eclipsed his misery, and he sat, peering into the night. With his superior vision, Ma'kiir could make out three figures on the floor and a fourth, stooped over the guard nearest his cell.**

**The Khajiit froze, inching his way backward and away from the murder scene, his breath stuck in his throat. He hoped that this stranger would simply be content to kill the guards, raid the evidence lockers, and leave without even noticing the poor Khajiit behind bars. Perhaps the Riften officials would pardon Ma'kiir after such a traumatic experience, he thought to himself.**

**A pair of pale white eyes glanced in the Cat's direction; eyes that could see as well in the dark as Ma'kiir's. They found the feline, huddled beside the stone wall, and moved towards the cell, the jangle of keys echoing in the darkness. With a scrape and a snap, the lock was opened, and the door creaked open on rusty hinges. "Come, we haven't much time." whispered a familiar voice.**

**Even in his surprise, Ma'kiir had the presence of mind to keep his voice down. "D-Daelian?!" he hissed, clambering to his feet. **

**"You were expecting the Gray Fox?" the Bosmer asked with the hint of a grin. "I told you, I owe you my life. And until you're free and clear of the guards, that debt is still unpaid. Now come, before the watchmen rotate the guard." He immediately turned on his heel, leading the stunned Khajiit back through the detention area and along a narrow corridor to a disused side door, and out into the night.**

**They progressed on, past the Bee and Barb and crept at a crouch along the bridge, turning down an alley and into the courtyards of Riften's homesteads. Daelian led the way down towards a low water gate, and after kicking off the iron grate, ducked through and out into The Rift. The Elf pressed on, progressing their march through a thin band of pine wood, not halting until they reached a softly babbling brook winding its way down and out of the nearby mountains.**

**"I strongly suggest you go abroad." the Elf muttered, pulling a small leather sack from within the folds of his cloak and handing it to Ma'kiir; the Elf had had the presence of mind to take Ma'kiir's effects in the daring jailbreak. "The guards will soon find you are gone, and the sentries slain. You would do well to be far, far away from Riften before this happens."**

**Ma'kiir realised the gravity of Daelian's statement. And he would indeed be far, far away come morning. He'd run all the way to Solitude in the North-West if he had to. "But Ma'kiir's task is-"**

**"Completed." Daelian interrupted. "I took the liberty of collecting the chest from the opened safe in the master bedroom and delivered it to the waiting Thieves in the Ratway."**

**Ma'kiir couldn't help but grin. He swept the Bosmer a bow, after slinging the pack over his shoulder. "Many thanks again, friend. May the Night Mother watch over you always, Daelian Carnastiel." **

**The Elf smiled, returning the bow with a perfunctory nod. "And may Nocturnal guide you safely home, Ma'kiir." he gave the correct reply, then stepped sideways, vanishing into the trees.**

**[A/N: Once again, forgive the time between uploads. Aside from having other projects to work on, I have a very severe handicap in the fact that I still don't have an Internet connection in my home. Expect the next chapter in a week or two.]**


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